By Shaun McCoy
What happens to those writers, whom we all know and struggle
not to be, that tell people at parties that they love to write. You know the
kind I’m speaking of, the kind that don’t
write. The kind that had a brilliant thought or two as they passed through
college. Maybe once a decade they put pen to paper, or fingers to keys, or
whatever it is.
One moment, at age thirty, as I stared at the stream of
water that poured from my bathroom sink while it washed away the last of the
hairs from my morning shave, I realized that I was dangerously close to finding
out what happens to them. I was about to be one. Wasn’t writing my dream? Had I
really never submitted a story? Had I really never written and finished
anything?
They say that truth is many things, but she is seldom
accused of being pretty. At that moment, she was downright ugly. It was time to
put some lipstick on that pig. I was going to do this, I was going to write. More
than that, I was going to be a writer.
The first part was the hardest, I had to admit that I didn’t
know how to write… see, I told you she was ugly.
I spent the next few months learning how, reading self-help
writing books and watching inspirational Youtube videos. Then, while on an
airplane, I imagined a pretty, young professional girl on an elevator, headed
down. I didn’t know what was at the bottom of that impossibly long and
futuristic elevator shaft, but I knew it was evil.
This became the first scene of the first story I wrote after
I decided to actually become a writer. It was called Simon’s Folly, and it was
the first story I sold.
But writing is hard, as time consuming as it is soul
destroying. It is a draw on one’s mental and emotional resources like no other.
My day job was the biggest obstacle in my way, so it had to go. I began living
off half of my paycheck each month. I did this, living a minimalistic
lifestyle, for two years. Those two years ended on March 24th, when
I left my workplace for the last time. Now I have two years to write. Two years
to make it.
It is, I must say, a stupid gamble. This same money could
easily be spent on buying a house. I could have married the nice girl I was
dating and started a real life. But I don’t care. It’s not that I don’t care
about failing. There is nothing in this world that would devastate me as much,
that would hurt me as deeply, as failing in this … well, almost nothing.
I imagine myself at near the end of my days, looking back on
my life, wondering why I never wrote a damn thing. Wondering why millions of
people had never read one of my novels. I know what I’d say to myself. “I could
have,” I’d say, “if I had only tried.” Maybe I’d believe it. Maybe I’d figure I
was lying to myself. Maybe, but whatever. Let them say I failed. Let them say I
crashed and burned, that I waded through a sea of mediocrity on the way to an
island of ignominy, before they say I never tried.
Your decision is quite inspiring, sir. Your discipline is admirable. /n I didn't know how much you and Arturus had in common ;-))
ReplyDeleteShaun,
ReplyDeleteCongrats! I'm proud of you. It's the only way to do it...just dive in and give it your all. Best of luck. Sandy
Bravo, Shaun.
ReplyDeleteIt took me way too long to come to this conclusion. Writing is not for the faint of heart.
Go for it.
Shaun, your determination is inspiring, as is your writing. You have the heart and the talent. Best of luck.
ReplyDeleteBonnie
You truly are inspiring, Shaun. I remember reading about the girl on the elevator, before you sold it. Your stories stick with a person. If I get the piano tuned, will you come play it again?
ReplyDelete~Catherine.